


Sweet Jesus

by ArcticLucie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Lemons, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticLucie/pseuds/ArcticLucie
Summary: Daryl and Paul are taking a stroll through the orchard collecting lemons when things take a heated turn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was supposed to be a short and sweet fic about them making lemonade, but they weren't having it. One thing led to another and BAM, smut city. I hope no one's too terribly disappointed. ;) Enjoy!
> 
> Set several years in the future.

They had fruit trees now at Hilltop, all kinds, lining the back acreage they’d spent the last several years fortifying and farming. _Reclaiming._ Little Hershel swung from a low branch on an apple tree as they passed looking every bit as much as his dad as he did his namesake. He smiled at them but chose not to let go of the bright red apple he seemed intent on calling his own.

The ache of what happened to Glenn still sat heavy in Daryl’s bones, but sometimes it stung worse than others, times when he’d get a secret smile from a kid who’d tried to call him Dad rather than Uncle. Though Daryl couldn’t let that stand. Not because he didn’t love the boy as his own, but because he carried a guilt that would never be absolved, and while no one else laid blame on him for it, he’d always been a lot harder on himself.

A gentle bump on his shoulder broke him out of his cellar of bad thoughts, and he received a very different kind of smile from a man who knew him better than he knew himself most days. He let out a quiet sigh, his knuckles brushing fingers in a silent thank you perfected over years of trial and error. But they’d figured it out in the end.

Paul had his hair down today, the flowing locks dusted with the petals of pear blossoms that rained down on them as they strolled through the orchard. The two of them had somehow become the Keepers of the Trees—a title Judith bestowed on them the first time she’d tasted a fresh pear. He didn’t mind so much. Trees meant safety, meant security, the ability to stay in one place and _thrive_.

So the archer turned arborist.

His bow rarely saw action these days anyway apart from when the need to hunt called to him. Not necessarily for food mind you, since they had more than enough now with the chickens, pigs, goats, and rabbits they kept. Plus the gardens produced in abundance. And the walkers had all but wasted away, most melding back into the dirt, out of sight, out of mind. But sometimes he just needed to get away.

Now that they’d taken care of the more immediate threats, humanity began its nth rebuild, and they were making progress. The trees marked it, ones they’d planted years ago now beginning to bear fruit.

This year they had lemons.

Daryl looked up into the canopy littered with the yellowing fruit. A trickle of sweat rolled down from his forehead and he grabbed for his rag to blot it away. Before he could shove it back in his pocket, Paul had hefted himself up a tree, canvas bag swaying from his neck as he ascended. His shirt hiked up when he reached for a higher branch, and Daryl wet his lips as he focused on the exposed skin of his side, pale and inviting.

“Heads up,” Paul interrupted, a knowing smirk signaling he’d caught him staring. Daryl glared up at him and narrowly missed the lemon tossed his way. “How’s that one taste?”

He pulled out his knife and sliced open the fruit, the warm juice running down his fingers and stinging a small cut on his palm. He sucked the juice from the wound, the sour taste every bit as pungent as he remembered. “Needs sugar.”

“Guess I’ll have to come down and give you some.”

Daryl scoffed as he tilted his head back to squirt juice directly into his mouth. He closed his eyes from the rays of sunshine sneaking through the canopy, but he didn’t have to see to know Paul’s eyes were on him. He grinned to himself and felt lemon juice escape down his chin, a tiny river cutting its way through scruff to the hollow of his neck.

The breathy hum could’ve come from either of them.

Paul stuffed several more lemons into his bag before climbing down, Daryl’s hands meeting his hips near the bottom of the tree and guiding him the rest of the way, fingertips accidentally on purpose sliding under fabric in search of warm skin. Paul spun in his arms and asked, “Did you save me a taste?” with an innocent smile that meant _things_ , wicked things.

He removed the bag from his shoulder and sat it to the side as Daryl held up half the lemon, the rest long since discarded at his feet. Paul’s hands curled around his wrist and pulled them both toward him so he could dive right in, his face puckering as soon as the bitter fruit hit his tongue. Daryl couldn’t help but chuckle, a low laugh he reserved for Paul alone.

But the laughter died in his throat when lips pressed into his, Paul’s tongue warm and tangy when it slid over his own enlivened taste buds. Then they fell into step, into a dance they both knew by heart. He heard the thud of lemons hitting the dirt when Paul’s back collided with the tree, but he’d worry about that later, his brain far too overwhelmed with lust and need.

Fingers tangled in his hair, twisting and pulling until he arched away. His reward: Paul laving and licking at the sticky-sour mess the lemon had left behind on his neck, his body thrumming with every puff of air against heated skin. The gentle summer breeze swallowed up a “You taste so fucking good,” and he responded by wedging his knee between welcoming thighs.

He’d never get used to this, to how well they fit, to how far they’d come from where they met. The world had beaten and broken him a thousand times over, but all it took was Paul’s body against his to feel like he’d wrestled back the upper hand. He had it now, and he’d never let go.

“Love ya,” Daryl whispered, waiting, waiting, waiting for Paul’s lips to travel up his neck so he could kiss him again.

“Love you too,” came the reply, punched out with a needy moan Daryl quickly smothered.

His fingers dipped into the waist of Paul’s pants and skimmed around toward the button. The zipper stuck, like Daryl knew it would, but he also knew how to force it into submission. God, he hated these fucking pants, but Paul looked divine in them. Though he looked even better out of them.

But Daryl didn’t bother pushing them down his thighs. He had enough room to get what he wanted, his name like a prayer sent into the treetops when he squeezed, pulsing heat, heartbeat thumping in his sticky palm, and Paul’s fingerprints searing the memory in tiny bruises on his shoulders.

Jesus _fucking_ Christ.

They’d had years, _years_ to perfect this, to become complacent yet Paul still sent his engine revving like a brand new machine. Every. Single. Time. A horse launching out of the gate, zero to six in three point five seconds. Except his cock still sat behind the starting line, and that just wouldn’t do.

He sucked a love bite to the crease of Paul’s neck, salty sweet, his fingers dragging from base to tip and back again. Paul shivered, tiny spasms sending shockwaves rippling through them both. Daryl removed his hand, and watched Paul bite his lip and furrow his brow in protest, before he sunk to his knees.

Paul had only managed to undo his belt, but Daryl finished the job one handed like a goddamn pro. He gave himself a few strokes and nuzzled his cheek against Paul’s thick length, his nose gliding over the silken skin as he breathed in the musky scent of his lover. With his nose buried in a pillow of hair, his tongue darted out to lap at his balls before he drew one into his mouth.

The fingers tightening in his hair went ignored, but the “Fuck, baby,” had him looking up. Their blue eyes locked and Daryl released him, but only so he could make a show of running his devilish tongue along a delicious vein as it throbbed against him. He hummed when he got to the crown, following it up with an obscene slurp as he toyed with the precome leaking from the head.

“Mmm, sweet Jesus.”

“I hate you,” Paul said with a soft chuckle. His eyes twinkled as he carded a hand through Daryl’s hair, but his head flitted back when Daryl sucked him down. He let out a whimper and Daryl wondered if his toes were curling in his boots. But it didn’t matter. They would be by the time he finished.

He’d had enough foreplay by that point. And after years together, it didn’t take him long to press all the right buttons, a well paced bob and his throat constricting tight around the tip. He could’ve dragged it out, teased him all afternoon. Everyone in Hilltop had seen their bare asses going at it enough times to know not to interrupt, but the promise of actual lemonade had him thirsty for something other than Paul’s dick.

So he sped up, his hand working over every inch his mouth couldn’t reach until he felt the telltale signs of Paul reaching his limit: his speech turning incoherent, his knees shaking and bracing against Daryl’s chest, the sting as he pulled a tad too hard on Daryl’s hair. And Daryl could feel it building in himself, his own lungs begging for air as he chased his release, each pump of his cock mirrored on Paul’s.

He felt Paul stiffen just before his taste hit his tongue and washed away any remnant of lemon left behind. Daryl sucked him dry, letting him ride out his orgasm before racing toward his own. Sated and spent, he pressed his forehead to Paul’s hip as he caught his breath. He looked up to find a kind smile shining down on him.

“Sweet enough for you?” Paul teased.

Daryl scoffed as he stood, tucking himself away. “Somethin’ like that.” He couldn’t hold back his smirk when Paul kissed him, slow and sure. He pulled away and started picking up lemons while Paul put himself back together. Then they strolled back through the orchard hand in hand.

By supper time, the whole settlement had had a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade, sweetened with chunks of sugar cane. But if anyone asked, Daryl liked his a little sour. Because, well, Paul was all the sweet he’d ever need.


End file.
